He’d noticed it before anyone else did.

Not because he was trying to, not because he cared more—though, maybe he did—but because she sat two tables down, always perfectly composed, always perfectly alone.

Every day.

Same untouched tray. Same careful posture. Same quiet disappearing act.

But now, her cheekbones were sharper. Her collarbones more defined. Her blazer hung looser on her frame than it had a month ago.

And Patrick was done pretending he didn’t see it.

He stood from his table mid-lunch, ignoring Gibsie’s mouthful of questions and Joey’s raised brow, and made his way to her like it was nothing. Like his heart wasn’t hammering. Like she wasn’t the kind of girl who could crush a boy with a look.

She glanced up when his shadow crossed her table. “Feely.”

“Hey.” He nodded to the tray in front of her. “You planning on eating that?”

Her expression didn’t shift. “Not hungry.”

“You haven’t been hungry for weeks.”

She blinked, caught. Just for a second. “I’m fine.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“I was fine yesterday.”

“And the day before?”

She looked away, fingers twitching in her lap. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But I do.”

A long beat passed.

She laughed—but it wasn’t real. “Well, save your concern, Feely. I’m not a project.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

She opened her mouth, probably to brush him off again, but Patrick cut in, gentler this time. “Look, you don’t owe me an explanation. But you can’t keep pretending nothing’s wrong. You’re not invisible. Not to me.”

Her walls wavered. Just barely.

And in the silence that followed, Patrick didn’t push. He just sat across from her and stayed there.

Not talking. Not leaving. Just… staying.